


Coskun

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Perpetual Nonesense [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Gen, Horseback Riding, Horses, Reunions, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ca. 1860, London and Damascus. In the wake of personal tragedy Lord Lionel Nevermoor finds distraction in an unlikely place: an old friend invites him along to the lands of his birth, lands he has not visited in many a life time. Once there, he finds by chance someone he had not thought to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coskun

It was dark and foggy on Kensal Green for night had fallen across the magnificent garden cemetery and the early autumn cold had only deepened. The sky was overcast, blanketed in thick, foreboding clouds. It would rain soon, he realised dejectedly, but he did not care. He stood opposite her grave, staring at it without truly seeing it, his hands folded across his walking stick and his thoughts dwelling upon kinder times.

The marble headstone was remarkable in its simplicity amid the ostentatious memorials of the aristocracy and nouveau rich that crowded around the plot upon which it stood. Mariette had never cared for the trappings of her station. It was an elegant headstone of plain marble, rectangular with carefully rounded corners and her name etched across it in dignified script. Every evening he would come here, as soon as his duties allowed him. He had kept the grave neat for all these months and now it had been disturbed. There was a depression amid the grass, a depression that had the shape of a person. As if someone had laid curled up against the headstone.

“I thought I might find you here,” a woman spoke softly as she came to stand beside him. She was petite, her frame willowy like a girl instead of a woman and yet she was far older than he was. She did not look the part. She never had and he suspected she never would. Her love of pastel shades only reinforced her apparent youth, though she had donned a sombre, sable-lined dolman against the evening chill. She had no love for the colder climates and yet she had followed him here.

“Where else would I be?” he returned, his voice as cold as the weather. He was tall and seemed taller still beside her slight figure. He held his top hat in hand and his long, brown hair tangled about his shoulders. He had not bound it since she had died, had not washed it either. “There is nothing for me here now.”

She glanced up at him, concern in her green eyes as she searched his olive features for an answer. Even in the dim gaslight she recognised the smears of ash across his cliff-like cheekbones for what they were. His expression was stony, his dark eyes hard with unshed tears. “It worries me when you speak in such a fashion.”

He did not reply immediately, his gaze stubbornly upon the headstone. A single red rose laid upon it, its beautiful petals tattered and torn. He had not placed it there, but he knew who had. A scowl creased his ageless features as his gaze returned to the disturbed grass. He moved towards the grave to remedy its sullied appearance, but she put a gloved hand on his arm and stopped him. “We all grieve in different ways,” she said quietly. “Do not harden your heart against him, please. It pains me to see you two so.”

“I should have laid her to rest upon the moors.” He regretted having listened to her pleas, however well meant they had been. He regretted allowing Mariette to be interred here, only to have her final resting place disturbed. He glared at the wilting rose. He should have finished the matter. He should have put Alistair out of his crazed misery like the rabid dog he had become and finished the matter.

“You _will_ find her again,” she said softly, reassuringly.

He did not need her to tell him that, for he knew he would find his little eagle. He would not rest until he had found her once again. However, he also knew his erstwhile friend would be there to meet them the moment they reunited. He had seen it in Alistair's eyes. Jealousy. Misplaced vengeance. He should have finished the matter. He should have put him down and finished the matter. Perhaps, there was still time...

“He is confused and frightened,” she commented to his thoughts as she looked sideways at him, her expression full of sorrow. “Our gifts can be terrible burdens, you know this better than anyone.”

He glanced at her, but averted his gaze almost immediately. In many ways she was so much like his beloved Arlette that it pained him to look upon her, especially in times like these. A raindrop fell from the sky, splattering along the side of his forehead. He turned his gaze upward, squinting at the dark clouds as if there was something there to see.

“Do not despair,” she added as she gave his hand a light squeeze. “There are futures to be had yet.”

“Yes, there are,” he agreed and she smiled, until he continued: “But they all lead to death.”

“And life,” she objected, worry etched across her features as she looked up at him. “Many lives, moments of happiness to treasure-”

“And deaths to mourn,” he interrupted her. He looked sideways at her then, at her light olive complexion and long dark hair. The straight nose, the curved lips, the long lashes framing green eyes. She was so similar to his Arlette... “I never wanted this Khalila.”

She smiled sadly hearing that ancient name and put her other hand with her first, holding his hand with both of hers. “None of us did, Djúva.”

He nodded and sighed, his gaze wandering across the headstone. It stood all alone in a cemetery otherwise crowded. There was space beside it for another grave. A grave that would never be occupied. His gravestone would never stand beside hers. Always, she laid alone. Perhaps, one day, at the end of time, they would lay together. One day, when the world would come apart and reality as they knew it ceased to be. Today was not that day, even though he wanted it to be.

“You will find her again,” she reassured him. “But it will do you no good to linger here. Why don't you join my dearest husband and myself to the Orient?”

His expression brightened ever so slightly at that and she smiled encouragingly. “Are you buying new bloodstock?” he inquired. He knew Khalila and her husband imported Arabian horses to save the breed for future generations from the political unrest and inbreeding in its native lands.

“Yes, with fortune on our side we will find a quality broodmare,” she replied, glad he had taken to the topic, though she had been well aware of his fondness for equines and his own work in establishing the Thoroughbred. “Dejania has had her share of foals.”

“In that case, I will join you,” he agreed and offered her his arm.

“It's settled then,” she smiled as she accepted his offer, lightly placing her hand in the crook of his arm. “We intent to leave within a fortnight.”

“I believe I can manage that,” he replied with a smile he did not feel. It would be long enough, he thought as he glanced across his shoulder at the murdered rose laying forlornly upon the cold marble headstone. Long enough to finish the matter.

* * *

“Djúva.”

Lord Lionel Nevermoor turned at the quiet greeting and smiled when he saw Khalila. She wore a green pastel walking dress and matching hat that complimented her complexion, drawing attention to her beautiful eyes which shone green as the emeralds of her necklace. She wore a short cloak against the chilly autumn weather whose tufted trimmings swayed as she moved.

“Lady Anne Blunt, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he returned formally as he took off his top hat and accepted her extended hand, pressing a light kiss to her gloved fingers.

She chuckled, raising her free hand to her lips. “Please, such formality is not necessary.”

A smile flitted across his stern features at her comment. “Perhaps not, Khalila,” he returned. “But we mustn't forget who we are at this time.”

Her expression fell briefly, undoubtedly she thought of their friend, now lost to his own mind. “No, we mustn't,” she agreed, but then she smiled again when she saw her husband cross the train platform towards them. “Ah, there is my dearest husband now.”

“You must be Lord Nevermoor!” Mr Wilfrid Blunt greeted him cordially as he joined them, the servants who carried his and his wife's luggage following close behind him. He was a poet and a writer, Khalila had told him, and by the look of the man Lord Nevermoor could well believe it. He was dressed smartly in a fine brown suit but with a cavalier attitude towards propriety, like one would expect from an artist. It was exemplified most noticeably by the way he wore his top hat slightly crooked and combined his otherwise decent suit with a headache inducing waistcoat.

“Indeed I am,” Lord Nevermoor returned far more reserved as he shook the man's hand. He tried to keep his disapproval from showing on his features, for Khalila's sake. Mr Blunt seemed an amicable fellow; fit and dashing with a natural sort of flair. Lord Nevermoor could see why she liked him, though he stood by his conviction their marriage had been a mistake. She had gone through such pains to posit herself as the daughter of the Earl of Lovelace and the granddaughter of no other than Lord Byron himself. They required positions of prominence to fulfil their work and she had been poised perfectly to influence creative, free-thinking minds. And now she had made it difficult by marrying a... a nobody, really. Her position amid genteel art society would surely suffer. “And you must be Mr Blunt.”

“Please, call me Will,” Mr Blunt replied with a broad grin. “Everyone does.”

“Very well, _Will,”_ Lord Nevermoor replied with measured reluctance as he folded his hands across the handle of his walking stick. He could see why Alistair had loathed the man: they were too similar. Lord Nevermoor smiled to himself as he glanced at Khalila. He had always suspected... but that was irrelevant now, their crazed friend would not bother them for a good, long while.

“Have you ever been this way, Lionel?” Mr Blunt inquired conversationally as he gave his wife a brief kiss on the cheek in greeting.

Lord Nevermoor all but flinched at the cavalier breach of social convention; he had not given the man permission to address him thus. “No,” he answered and stopped bothering to hide his disapproval of Mr Blunt - 'Will' - but the man either did not notice or simply ignored it, something which reared an all too familiar sense of irritation. “No, I have not.”

Unlike Khalila, who seemed drawn to the parched remnants of their birth lands like a thirsty horse to its favourite but long since dried up watering hole, he had not returned to the lands of his youth in many centuries. It was all barren rocks and sand now, the familiar steppe swallowed by the advancing desert. He had known this had happened and had cared not to see the skeletal remains of what had once been all he knew. He preferred his vibrant memories.

“Damascus is beautiful this time of year,” Mr Blunt continued, quite unperturbed by Lord Nevermoor's quiet glare.

* * *

They travelled for weeks to reach their destination. First by train, then by ship and then once more by train, taking the transcontinental to the very edge of industrialised civilisation. To Lord Nevermoor, Damascus was but a shadow of its former self, of the sprawling metropolis he remembered so very well from the crusades. From Damascus, they had set forth on horse back. As he currently had none of his own, he borrowed one of Khalila's mares, a fine featured rose grey girl not five years old.

They made camp two days out of Damascus. Mr and Mrs Blunt spoke with Beteyen ibn Mirshid, Sheyk of the Gomussa, and discussed a particular mare their eye had fallen upon. The mare's name was Abeyeh Sherrak, some three years old, dark bay and 14 hands or so with a good head. Not wishing to intrude upon their negotiations Lord Nevermoor strolled away, casually observing the horses that stood teetered or corralled among the tents. Khalila knew a good horse when she saw one and he could not agree more: the mare would be a fine addition to her bloodstock.

The Arabian was a remarkable breed, loyal and intelligent with excellent speed and stamina, and although very similar, he still preferred the Akhal-Teke, whose slim frame, deep chest and long back allowed for greater endurance and mobility under the saddle. They were also his last enduring link to his native lands and a past whose memories grew fainter with every century. However, as they were not particularly close to that region he was surprised when he came upon a modest group of the tall Akhal-Teke, corralled amid a herd of the smaller Arabians. One of the Akhal-Teke snorted and scraped its front hoof when it caught sight of him. It was a stallion, no more than five years old, a golden buckskin and about 16 hands tall.

When he neared the coral a man, dressed in the elaborately decorated robes the Gomussa valued, approached him. “A splendid selection of animals,” Lord Nevermoor commented in Arabic before the man had a chance to speak. He had not spoken the language in a while, but the smooth syllables came to him easily even after all this time.

“You are from these lands,” the man observed. He was clearly surprised at Lord Nevermoor's accent-less fluency, for in his neat, beige cotton suit he hardly looked the part.

Lord Nevermoor smiled. “One could say that.”

Loud snorting interrupted their conversation. The stallion had pushed its way to the edge of the coral, stomping its hooves as it whinnied and threw its head, it's dark mane tossing in the air. A slow frown creased Lord Nevermoor's brow as he turned towards the vocal horse. The stallion called fiercely when their gazes crossed, as if in reply.

“I know that temper...” Lord Nevermoor mused as he started towards the horse, the rest of existence quite forgotten. The stallion reared, kicking its front legs as he neared. He approached it slowly, unafraid of its tantrum, and raised his hand towards the horse as he reached out mentally.

\+ No need to shout, I hear you. + Lord Nevermoor send as he lightly touched the horse's fierce spirit. The stallion came down, its hooves stomping the earth before pushing its snout against his hand.

\+ Coskun. + Lord Nevermoor firmly rubbed the stallion's nose bridge, clearly pleased. + What are you doing here, old friend? +

Coskun gave a snort and a shake of his head in what might well be an equine shrug. A moment later Lord Nevermoor's thoughts were overwhelmed by sweltering heat and irritating stings, the itch of sand in his clothes and the taste of foetid water upon his tongue.

\+ That bad? + Lord Nevermoor inquired as he scratched the stallion behind his ears. Coskun's ears flattened as the image of a patched nag's bottom manifested into his thoughts. Lord Nevermoor's eyebrows rose with amusement as he looked at the horse, who snorted derisively.

“Name your price,” Lord Nevermoor said without looking up from the stallion.

“With great regrets, sir, but the stallion is not for sale,” the man apologised as he appeared at Lord Nevermoor's side.

Lord Nevermoor glanced sideways at the man, a frown creasing his brow. _“Any_ price.”

“I am sorry, he is sire to his lineage,” the man returned, wringing his hands together. “Perhaps-”

“No,” Lord Nevermoor interrupted as his gaze travelled across the small herd. There was no question with which horse he would leave this camp. A scowl slowly crept onto his stern features in place of his frown. “I am interested only in the stallion.”

“He cannot be sold,” the man replied. “Please, sir, consider...”

Lord Nevermoor stopped listening and returned his attention to Coskun. He looked at the stallion as he rubbed the underside of the horse's head. He closed his eyes and imagined the steppes of old, the fresh air, the warm sun on his skin, the wind rushing through his hair and tugging at his garments as they sped across the sand.

Coskun snorted and Lord Nevermoor opened his eyes as the stallion threw it's head, all but prancing in place. His senses were flooded with the strain of powerful muscles, of running as fast as you could with the cool wind on your face. He smelled fire and blood, heard the ring of iron, felt the satisfaction of his solid hooves impacting with yielding flesh. He kicked and bit and ran so free. He felt suddenly fatigued, but in a good way. In the way of a much loved work out. And in his fatigue he saw the horizon and was overcome by longing to reach it. Lord Nevermoor stumbled in the wake of the strong emotions, grasping onto the stallion's neck to steady himself.

“Sir...?” the man inquired, concerned by the gentleman's sudden faintness.

Lord Nevermoor barely heard it. He regained his composure and looked at Coskun, a single question on his mind. The stallion turned his head towards him and lightly nudged his shoulder, and his thoughts filled once more with the longing to run for the horizon, not alone, but together.

\+ Coskun... + Lord Nevermoor smiled faintly as he scratched the stallion behind the ears before moving to his side, rubbing the horse's neck with his left hand. His fingers entwined into it's mane. He took a deep breath. Coskun snorted. And with a sudden pull he hauled himself onto the stallion's back. Coskun was already turning. The man shouted, others reacted too. Lord Nevermoor held on tightly. Coskun jumped into a gallop and crashed through the weak coral. Sand flew under the stallion's kicking hooves. Within moments, they were across and out of the camp, racing towards that distant horizon.

But they were not yet free, for riders streamed out of the camp behind them and gave pursuit. Lord Nevermoor closed his eyes, trusting the stallion's instincts. There was only one way they could get out of here and an endurance track across the desert was not it, no matter how much Coskun's fierce spirit desired it. Carefully, deliberately, he reached out to the stallion's mind, taking as firm a hold of it as his hands did on the horse's manes. A concentrated frown creased his features as he forged the connection, not simply of mind but of body too. It was the only way to make his plan work.

As Lord Nevermoor focussed his will upon his goal, their perceptions slowly merged. He could feel the stallion's strong heart beat in time with his own. He could feel the powerful muscles strain and flex as they hurled them forward. His heart raced, his limbs ached and his breath came ragged as if it was he who ran and not the horse. He could feel his thoughts begin to fade as his sense of self muddled. And it was in the moment his mind ceased to be his own that he tore the fabric of reality around them.

Reality twisted up side down and physical laws turned inside out. Pain knifed into his mind as he cried out, a tortured scream and a shrieked whinny at the same time. The instant felt like an eternity, though it lasted but a few heart beats. An eternity locked in a shape that was neither one nor the other, before it came apart at the seems as he let go. Reality righted itself and did so with the solid force of all the physicality that normally kept it in shape.

The starry night sky and grassy hills span around Lord Nevermoor as he was hurtled back into proper time and space. He slammed into the ground and the air was knocked out of his lungs by the sheer force of his collision. A heavy weight crashed against him and he screamed in pain as agony like liquid fire shot through his leg and chest.

Coskun scrambled up, his eyes wide in fright. The stallion was disoriented and panicked but otherwise fine. It was raining. It was dark. The grassy earth was soggy and he kept loosing his footing on the unfamiliar terrain. Where was his friend-beast? He tossed his head from side to side, his hooves stomping the wet ground. It was only then that Coskun saw him, crumpled into a miserable little heap between his hooves.

Coskun whinnied in distress at the sight and scrambled aside, hooves gauging the ground. He leaned down and nudged Lord Nevermoor's shoulder, again and again, harder and harder, until the man groaned weakly in response to the stallion's shoves. Lord Nevermoor moved, shifted one leg as he tried to rise but fell back down with a barely contained cry at the mind numbing pain that shot through his other leg.

Coskun nuzzled the side of Lord Nevermoor's face. He was hurt. It was his leg. A hurt leg was the end of life. Coskun stomped his hoof in dismay. He would not let them put his friend-beast down! The stallion knelt down into the mud and nudged Lord Nevermoor's shoulder, then bit him when he didn't respond.

“Coskun...” Lord Nevermoor croaked as he reached for the stallion's mane, his fingers entangling into the wet hair. He groaned in pain as he heaved himself across the stallion's back. Coskun snorted, shifting his weight in an ungainly attempt to help him. Lord Nevermoor steeled his will and ground his teeth together before grabbing his injured leg and pushing it across the horse. Regardless, the pain nearly caused him to black out and he collapsed along the stallion's back, only barely astride as his head fell against the horse's neck. Lights exploded across his vision before drawing away white, returning slowly and remaining blurred. With all the strength left to him, he patted the stallion's shoulder in praise as Coskun rose. Every movement hurt, but they could not stay here. “C-Co-sskun,” he wheezed, barely above a whisper as he tried to focus his thoughts in the right direction and upon their destination. Tried to visualise the darkened estate whose foreboding silhouette would eventually emerge above the horizon. “H-home...”

The moorlands stretched around them as far as Coskun could see, obscured by nightfall and heavy rain. Incised stones from bygone ages jutted among the mist shrouded hills like giants' gravestones. The stallion was frightened, but Coskun trusted the man upon his back to know where warm stables lay. The stallion snorted in acknowledgement and started in the direction he had been shown, to find a place he had never been.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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